To Yield With a Grace To Reason
by Schrodingers-Cat-Paradox
Summary: John is broken, and engaged, when Sherlock returns. But the Great Hiatus has done more than awaken struggling feelings, but has changed both John and Sherlock in ways that put their once strong bond to a test. Post-Reichenbach. Now multi-chaptered
1. Chapter 1

_**To Yield With A Grace To Reason**_

_**Author's Note: **_This is inspired by a specific post on Tumblr, a post-Reichenbach fic but it's not necessarily a reunion fic. There's a lot of angst, just to forewarn xD

Out through the fields and the woods  
And over the walls I have wended;  
I have climbed the hills of view  
And looked at the world and descended;  
I have come by the highway home,  
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,  
Save those that the oak is keeping  
To ravel them one by one  
And let them go scraping and creeping  
Out over the crusted snow,  
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,  
No longer blown hither and thither;  
The last lone aster is gone;  
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;  
The heart is still aching to seek,  
But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man  
Was it ever less than a treason  
To go with the drift of things,  
To yield with a grace to reason,  
And bow and accept the end  
Of a love or a season?

-_Robert Frost_

For three years, nothing remotely joyous had happened to John Watson. A dark shadow seemed to have blanketed his world. It was an unnerving, sickening darkness that only brought nightmares and fears of waking.

Such was life after Sherlock. But this was also life before Mary.

Mary was not, John could not help but admit, Sherlock, in any sense. The grace and beauty she possessed was incomparable to Sherlock's. Mary was extraordinarily ordinary, where Sherlock was just extraordinary. But John needed Mary. She shed a fraction of light onto his dismal world. She became the only one who could make him forget.

For the first time in those years, John truly felt _happy._ Alive. Purposed. And he knew, grimly, he didn't have Sherlock to thank for any of that. Only Mary had brought that to him. For him.

John was the one who proposed to her, desperate to cement the happiness before it rushed away as so many of his good feelings had. Mary had been beyond herself with glee, positively glowing, her face a radiant sun. It was that moment that John knew she was _his _radiant sun. _His _light in a darkened room. _His._

Just as Sherlock had once been his.

It would've hurt less if a sword plunged into his stomach when John thought of Sherlock. Especially now. He had to forcibly tell himself Sherlock was dead. That he did not love him. That Sherlock had not once dazzled John with light as Mary did now.

The thoughts were always lies.

But he continued to relay them in his mind. He couldn't tread places his path had already crossed. What had happened, had happened. Sherlock had been gone for years, and had done nothing for John.

John, with help from Mary, could manage for at least brief moments without thinking of his dead best friend (or was he more than just a 'best friend? Another sword plunged his stomach when John thought of it). But in the days leading up to the celebration of their engagement, it was difficult to stop the nightmares of Sherlock falling. Always falling, with John forced to watch and unable to stop him.

John would wake up from this nightmares in a cold sweat, shaking violently and breathing heavily. Mary was beside him in each instance, and when John woke, she would gently take his hand, and kiss each of his cheeks with soft, perfect lips.

"Everything's fine, John. It was just a dream," she murmured soothingly.

Oh, how John wanted to believe the lies Mary told each night. How he wished everything was fine and the nightmares were just nightmares. But again he forced himself to accept the lies. Because the truths were unbearable.

The day of the engagement party started as roughly as any other day. Another vicious nightmare of Sherlock falling. Mary's soft kisses. And when the flat suddenly became alive with the few guests John had been comfortable enough to allow, he tried to smile. But the tension made his cheeks burn, the strain on his skin like heated glass ready to break.

Mary gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and it was only then that John could start to relax. He could finally speak to those who, aside from Mary, attempted to give him solstice after Sherlock's death. Lestrade, whose tired eyes spoke volumes of what he had been through, gave John a gentle clap on the back as a congratulations. John's sister Harry gave him as confident a smile as she seemed able. Mrs. Hudson and Molly gave him comforting hugs, without a mention of them being happy about the engagement.

John wondered if any of them were really happy about it.

It would be better, once they were married. Once they were married, it would all go away. John would have Mary. He would have permanent light because of her. He would finally fully remove the dark blanket. Everything would be as it was supposed to be.

But of course, those were lies, too.

John was just finishing a short, rather pathetic speech on Mary's behalf as the night dwindled down to its last hours, saying things he knew Mary already knew – that she had changed his life, and brought the light back to him (and though it was cliché, Mary still beamed her radiant-as-the-sun smile at him and kissed him right on the lips), when the door of the flat creaked open. At once every pair of eyes in the room trained their attention on the door, which slowly swung all the way open.

John only saw the dusty, slightly torn coat before his knees buckled. At once Mary grabbed John's arm tightly to keep him standing. If it weren't for her, John felt confident he would be on the floor.

With good reason, of course. More people in the room started to recognize the figure in the doorway, letting out small gasps of disbelief. Mrs. Hudson even let out a small, quiet yelp.

Gray eyes. Chocolate curls that hung over them. A thin, tall body.

"John." And there was the voice that was so low, it traveled across the silence.

John was convinced this was another nightmare. He knew that Mary would gently bring him back at any moment. He would blink open his eyes, sweating and shaking, and find himself in his bed. Any moment.

Because Sherlock could not be standing in front of him.

John groped for Mary's arm, and she held him steady. Her deep brown eyes were round with shock and horror, but she did not release John or even sway. She wasn't going to let him fall. Mary was John's lifeline, his stability, the only thing that held him firmly to the floor.

Why wasn't he awake yet? Why was Mary letting him continue to dream? _Maybe she isn't in bed. Maybe she can't wake me. Maybe –_

"John, I am so sorry." Sherlock's broken voice sent a stabbing pain down John's spine, a pain so real John had to accept he wasn't asleep.

But it was like he was in a dream trance, because words continued to fail him. Sherlock would obviously not expect him to speak. He was smart enough, John knew, to realize how much shock John would be in when he returned.

So instead Sherlock used John's silence to survey the people in the room, his eyes coming to rest on Mary. He narrowed his eyes at the hands that held onto John's arm.

A terrible look crossed Sherlock's face. One of three plus years of hidden strain. Pain. Concern. And probably, most prominently, though John could only guess, love.

"You're marrying her." It was not a question. "The ring on her finger. You're marrying her."

Still John could say nothing, his tongue a swollen weight in his mouth, refusing to form words.

"I-I died for you," Sherlock stuttered. John had never heard Sherlock stutter. Or sound so broken. "I died for you. Took that fall. To protect you. All for you. But….but you're _marrying her. _None of that – those things we did together – they didn't matter. It hadn't mattered. It never mattered, did it?"

Icy talons took hold of John's chest, and he swayed slightly on the spot. He wanted to speak, to tell three years of stolen words to the man he perceived to be dead. But no words came.

"You're marrying her," Sherlock said again, his words riddled with choking pain.

"Yes," John finally forced out of his mouth. "Because you were dead."

Sherlock flinched at the last four words, but kept his gaze trained on John. John was horrified to see the tears in the consulting detective's eyes. Actual tears, threatening to spill over at any moment. But they stayed pooling around his eyelids – Sherlock had fine control over them.

"If you're marrying her, John….just answer me one thing. Just one thing, and….and we can forget," Sherlock murmured, his body rippling with pain, and he clenched his fists. "Did….Did you ever love me?"

Another sword, only this time aimed straight at his chest. John felt as though he was bleeding, dying from the inside out, every follicle and pore opening and releasing the life from him. All at one question. Such a simple question.

Mary's hand maintained a vice-like grip on John's hand, and, absently, his fingers traced her fingers, lingering at her engagement ring. A diamond on a jewel.

This was who he had. All he had. Mary. His light, his sun, his stability. Sherlock could not take her away. Could not barge into his life after three years and take her away with one question. No matter what John had ever felt towards Sherlock, it had to go. John could not let Mary leave as Sherlock had. No amount of love he may have had could tear Mary away from him.

John held Sherlock's gaze, still gripping Mary's hand tightly. With this gaze, Sherlock's face seemed to drop, as if deducing John's answer.

It was not an answer Sherlock was going to like.

But John responded still, with one word. A word that tore at his throat as he pressed it out. The biggest lie of his life.

"_No._"

And with the one, crushing word, Sherlock forgot to control his tears.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: I don't know why, but I think I was inspired? I just feel the need to continue this story. My mind constantly nagged me about it until eventually I just decided it needed to be written, at least another chapter. Where it shall go from here, I can't tell you xD

* * *

He'd been spending the last few nights away from Mary and back in 221B. He wasn't sure himself why. He had a different life now, didn't he? Was there any reason to reattach old bonds?

Mary, bless her, knew John needed this, even when John wasn't so sure himself. It had been her idea, in the days following the engagement party, for John to go back to 221B to talk to Sherlock. Without this small push, John may have never gone back.

But he arrived to the flat to find himself alone. In fact, he was alone for a few days, arriving back to the same empty space. Only on the third day did he traipse up the stairs and open the door of the flat to find Sherlock Holmes stretched out across the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"Where have you been?" John asked, moving to stand in front of the couch to stare down at the consulting detective.

"Out," Sherlock answered vaguely, not bothering to turn his head.

"No. Sherlock. _Where have you been?_" John paused for a moment to make sure Sherlock had heard and understood the question clearly. "Where have you been for _three years?"_

"Jumping right into that, are we?" Sherlock asked disinterestedly, and John felt a sudden anger pulse through him.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am. You….you were gone for three bloody years, and you show up so suddenly at – " John stopped, suddenly seeming to remember what had happened just a few days ago. Not only what had happened to him, but what had happened to Sherlock.

"You'll have to forgive me for the unannounced visitation….had I known you were….attended, I would've waited."

John could hear it in his voice that he would not have waited.

"Just…for God's sake, sod the engagement party," John said hastily, waving one of his hands. Sherlock turned his head slightly to look up at him.

"You mean you're not actually thinking about what happened?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't want to."

"You weren't yourself."

"Neither were you."

Sherlock blinked, turning his head away. He folded his hands under his chin, his legs crossing.

"For someone who claims to be above human emotions, you showed a lot of them," John continued quietly.

"As you say, John, I wasn't myself," Sherlock returned.

"So are you saying what you said was a lie?"

Above all else, this is what stopped Sherlock short. He turned back to look up at John again, and for a moment the two of them were staring at each other, as though attempting to read each other. To read three years of lost memories and emotions. To read three years without each other.

"It can be." Sherlock turned away again after a long moment of this.

John closed his eyes for a moment in annoyance. "What does that mean, Sherlock?"

"Whatever you want, John, that's what it means."

"That's not good enough!" John's eyes flew open, his hands curled into tight fists. "Sherlock, you walked into my life after _three years_ and….and in one meeting, you manage to cry and – and imply that you love me. This isn't about what I _want._ This is about what you were thinking."

"I wasn't myself." Sherlock was starting to get defensive, but he would still not look at John. "None of that had to have happened if –"

"If I didn't want it to, I get it!" John interrupted fiercely. "But you still haven't answered me. Where were you? What happened to you that made you come back and….and act like that?"

Sherlock sighed deeply, his eyes shutting tightly. "It's complicated; you wouldn't understand."

Now John was becoming furious. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock!"

"I know you're not," Sherlock said at once. "But there is a difference between intelligence and understanding."

"Then _let _me understand! _Help me_ understand."

Sherlock sighed again, his eyes opening and finally sitting up on the couch. "Is it of much importance? You are marrying Mary. Anything I tell you will be second to that."

"That doesn't mean I don't want to know where you were and how you survived and what you were doing, you….you insufferable machine!"

Sherlock turned to John for a moment before abruptly standing and moving past him into the kitchen. Without hesitating, John followed him.

"Mrs. Hudson's ridded of most of my possessions I see," Sherlock said absently.

"Brilliant deduction," John responded sarcastically.

Either Sherlock didn't catch it or he didn't care, because he said nothing in return. John let him examine the kitchen carefully for a few long minutes before speaking again.

"At least let me understand why you couldn't tell me," he said.

Sherlock had just managed to locate his chemistry set, but he stopped midway through trying to pry it out. John was slightly pleased with this differing reaction, because it was further than he'd gotten so far.

"It was dangerous," Sherlock said eventually, abandoning the chemistry set and turning away. "If you'd known, Moriarty would've known, and you would've died."

"You didn't stop to think maybe we could've worked something out?"

"Worked what out? John. There was nothing _to_ work out. I had to die, and it had to be convincing, or everyone else would've died instead. Had I told you –"

"Did you tell anyone?" John interrupted him suddenly.

Sherlock's uncharacteristic hesitation was what confirmed the suspicion.

"Molly helped me. That was all," Sherlock said simply.

John was slightly wounded by this, and felt an anger towards Molly Hooper he knew wasn't fair, but he couldn't stop it.

"So you felt safer placing your trust in Molly Hooper than me?" he asked.

"As I told you, if I had entrusted you with any of that information, you would've died," Sherlock reminded him, slightly exasperated.

"So you chose a….a low-esteemed body bagger over your best friend?" John knew a second after he'd said the words that they were not fair, and that he really wasn't listening to what Sherlock was trying to tell him. But he was angry. Angry at Sherlock for everything he'd done. Angry with him crashing the engagement party and nearly ruining everything good that had happened to John since Sherlock's "suicide."

"You would've-"

"You just don't get it, do you?" Again John's words cut straight across Sherlock's attempt at a speech. And Sherlock didn't try and finish. "You don't understand the _hell _I went through after you jumped. You don't understand that what you said at the engagement party….that it broke everything I had tried to piece back together. You don't understand that Mary is the _only _thing I have. This isn't about you lying to me, Sherlock. It will never be about that. It's….It's…."

Sherlock watched him carefully, not bothering to try and speak, instead just letting John talk. John, at first, couldn't find the words, and when he did, he didn't stop to realize just how hurtful they would be.

"It's the fact that you just couldn't _stay _dead."

Sherlock's entire face blanched, looking stricken as though a whip had cut across his face.

"It…I'd finally found something, Sherlock, that…that made things so blissfully _simple._ And _happy. _And now I'm not sure if that's even there since you came back. You couldn't have just let….just let things be _happy _and _simple _for once."

"This….You think that this is my fault? That I somehow knew you were engaged?" Sherlock's voice was small, uncertain, sounding much like the child he so often was. "I never…. If I had known, for a _second,_ that you were with Mary, I wouldn't have come back at all."

"Oh, for once the brilliant Sherlock Holmes isn't smart enough to deduce that much," John said scathingly, his voice trembling.

"I didn't, John, because I thought you were….I thought you loved me too."

All the color drained from John's face, and his heart seemed to stop for a second. The way Sherlock said the words. So surely, without uncertainty, with an air of his usual arrogance. But with a slight tremor that told John just how broken this man had become in three years.

"If I ever did, I would've had to let go." John spoke carefully, not to give anything away. "It's easier to reason with yourself that way. Surely….surely you know about that. Face it, Sherlock, your best reasoning tells you that would never be safe….or right, or good for either of us."

Sherlock, of course, must have caught what John is essentially saying, but he didn't reveal as much.

"It's easy to reason. Any fool can reason with themselves to tell them it's a bit not good. But I don't want to reason. Because….because I –" Sherlock's voice caught, and he turned away again. "Because, unreasonable as it is, I _want _you."

"Yes, well….you're going to have to find someone else to fulfill your fantasies, because I yield to reason."

Those were the last words John spoke before he turned and left, leaving Sherlock looking stricken, and a raging, sick feeling forming in John's stomach, and the urge to go back and tell Sherlock every unreasonable thing he'd trained himself to guard against.


	3. Chapter 3

John had seemed to give up on Sherlock. The longer he spent away from him, the more he convinced himself he didn't _want _to know what had happened to him. Besides, he had clearly more pressing matters to be focused on. His wedding was only two months away. He couldn't think about Sherlock, especially with this.

He managed to convince himself he didn't care about Sherlock. He managed to keep the feelings about the man in a state of dull anger, which seemed to suffice enough for him. Anger, he figured, was better than caring. Anger was better than sadness or confusion. Of all the emotions he had to pick through, anger was the easiest to settle upon.

John could manage, with this anger, to go without nightmares and thinking and dreading and _feeling. _But because it was anger and not care, or confusion, or sadness, it made his life with Mary angry, too. Mary was a tolerant, patient, and understanding woman, among other things, but for once she seemed to think John was not doing what was best. All of which reached a peak when John stormed into Mary's small living quarters after a day at the clinic.

It was so obvious there was tension in the air as he did so, his face contorted in a frown and his eyes blazing.

"Not a dull day at the office today." John was talking before he fully passed through the door. "Three different patients with history of suicidal thoughts and tendencies – at least two of them have attempted. No one seems to realize anymore….it's sick."

Mary blinked from her spot on the couch, and John sighed, shaking his head, knowing he shouldn't be blaming those patients for what was wrong. More often than not, suicidal patients couldn't help it. But he was so angry. Maybe not specifically with them.

"No one realizes," John said again, running a hand through his dull, graying hair. "You know what would be an effective way to help? Show them what happens when you really _are _dead. When you're dead for three years, and watch everyone's lives just unravel…."

Without even knowing it, John had managed to turn the conversation completely into a Sherlock parallel. He glanced at Mary, worried about her reaction to him talking so obviously about Sherlock. Sherlock, who apparently loved her fiancé. Sherlock, who caused the love of her life to be in such a state of distress.

But Mary's face was still soft, kind, and understanding. Slowly she patted the spot next to her on the couch, and instantly John collapsed into it, allowing Mary to take his hand tightly.

"Why won't you talk to him?" Mary's voice was quiet and soothing, but John instantly felt uncomfortable and defensive.

"I _have _talked to him. What difference would it make if it hasn't made one already?" John responded, his voice tired and exasperated.

"John…John, I just wonder if you're really trying."

John looked over at her, taking in her soft face and deep eyes. A face so full of love and affection for _John. _And, all over again, John felt himself yearning and needing Mary even more.

But she was wrong. Caring and affectionate or not, she was _wrong. _He had tried. At first, anyway, he had tried. But there was no point in furthering the cause.

"I have been," he said aloud, closing his eyes and allowing his head to fall back. "I mean, I have already. Why should I continue? There's….there's no point."

"You know that's not true," Mary objected, giving his hand a squeeze. "You know he's your friend….and you know there's a 'point.' You need him, and he needs you, now more than ever….he's probably going through a lot, too, John…."

John tensed, a familiar anger slowly flooding him, starting from his toes and reaching his cheeks, causing them to flush.

"I do not 'need' him. I don't need him." He repeated it like a mantra, maybe to convince himself. "He….He was the one who jumped off that building. He's the one who has to deal with those consequences. I'm done. There's nothing I can do."

"You've given up." Mary's blunt statement was still backed by gentle softness, but John barely picked up on it. "You've given up…John. John, I want you to call him….tonight."

"And what? Apologize and try and understand and tell him I need him? Because what good will that do?" John snapped, yanking his hand away from Mary's. "It's _done,_ Mary, and there's nothing to fix."

"You haven't even given it a chance to be fixed. It's only been a few days….you haven't allowed it to get better."

"Why should I?" John hissed, at once on his feet, propelled by his sudden fury. "It's not like three years can pass and I can just….just _allow things to get better!"_

Mary stared at him, hands folded in her lap, a determined glow to her eyes.

"Tonight, John….for me. Call him…."

"And what?" John asked again through gritted teeth, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands.

"Invite him over for dinner….Anything, John….I want to see you happy again…."

"What makes you think I'm upset?" But the defensive, agitated tone he used only confirmed that he is upset.

Mary smiled. It was a smile that didn't reach her eyes, a small, sad smile.

"Please, John. Please do this for me," she whispered.

John, without meaning to, rolled his eyes and turned his back on her, digging in his pocket for his mobile.

"Probably won't even agree to it," John told the air in front of him. "The dumbass doesn't even eat…."

Not for the first time in his life, John was wrong.

It shouldn't have been this awkward. Seeing Sherlock in Mary's home. John keeping a well measured distance from him. Mary, of course, being pleasant and kind and so damn _wonderful_ to a man who was, in theory, someone she should've hated.

John found himself, as the night wore on tirelessly, hating Sherlock all the more.

Sherlock sat across from the both of them at the dinner table, for the first time in his life looking uncomfortable. John watched him with skeptical eyes, waiting for this all to take at turn for the worst, as they so often did where Sherlock was involved.

Mary was the only one who attempted conversation with Sherlock. Sherlock would only answer with short responses, his eyes determinedly fixed on Mary and not John.

John wasn't sure what had happened to Sherlock in the last few days since they last spoke, but he guessed it wasn't anything pleasant. As Sherlock talked, John noticed the slight shake to his voice, and the uncharacteristic stutter he adopted.

He wasn't the Sherlock John had once called his best friend. And that only made John clutch his fork with a tighter, iron clad fist.

Funny how the fact that this night was going so well was what angered him the most.

"What about yourself?" Sherlock asked suddenly close to the end of the night, his conversation directed at Mary. His food was untouched on his plate, and if John had been Mary, he would've been offended. But Mary looked nothing if not completely understanding.

"Oh, I live nothing of a life compared to yours and John's," she said, smiling.

For the first time that night, at the sound of John's name, Sherlock turned to look at John. John could only stare back at him, forcing his face to be emotionless. And at the sight of John's face, something seemed to spark in him. His eyes narrowed and he turned instead back to Mary, only looking at her now in a different way.

And John knew that look. The pointed, intense look. A concentrated…_deductive _look.

_Oh, fuck no…_

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock murmured, and before John was aware of what he was doing, his fork was clattering to the table and his hands were gripping the table in front of him.

"Stop," was all he said, and Sherlock looked at him, expressionless.

"It's obvious you don't work anywhere elaborate – John didn't meet you at the clinic or anywhere likewise," Sherlock began, glancing back at Mary, who was oblivious to what was about to happen. "Though you do have some amount of money – your diamond necklace and earrings do say something about that –"

"_Sherlock,"_ John hissed, his nails digging painfully into the table.

"So where do you get so much money? Not your parents….they don't live in London, do they? In Surrey, is it? Fitton? So they aren't around, and you left your whole family back to come to London, which means they may not approve of –"

"_Sherlock!" _John's voice was all but a snarl now, warning Sherlock to stop while he is still ahead, while he still has more harmful deductions to make.

"- what it is you're doing here. So where did you earn your money? Someone left it to you. And judging by your anxious habit of rubbing your left ring finger, and the slight indent of the skin there, it was your fiancé before John….Oh, no….no, he didn't leave you money, he's not dead. He bought that jewelry for you."

"_Say another word, Sherlock Holmes, and I swear –" _

"He bought that for you with his wealthy job and you were engaged to him but you _left _him before much could come out of it. You're _still _engaged to him." Sherlock finished his long stream of deductions with less flourish than John was used to.

John has never been angrier in his life.

Mary stared at Sherlock, a meek smile still on her face. John only had to see her slightly fallen face for a split second before rounding on Sherlock.

"_You rightful bastard,_" he snarled, rising from his chair, dragging his fingernails across the table in order to release his grip on it.

"John….John, it's all right," Mary whispered, reaching to take John's hand, but John pulled away, his focus trained solely on Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

Sherlock stared at him emotionlessly, eyes still narrowed.

"You….You can't just come into my fiancée's home and start _belittling _her!" John growled, his arms shaking with the effort of restraining himself from launching themselves at Sherlock.

"I thought you deserved to know," Sherlock said, slightly dismissively.

"I already knew, you bloody idiot!" John shouted, and Mary frantically tried to calm him down.

"John, I promise, it's okay, he didn't –"

"He _did _know what he was doing, he _did _mean it! If this is another one of his stupid attempts to get me to see what I have never _seen…." _John's voice trailed off, too enraged to even formulate a proper sentence.

Sherlock was standing now, keeping his eyes away from John and slowly moving out of the dining room.

"Where do you think you're going?" John snapped, instantly following him.

"I feel as though I've overstayed my welcome," Sherlock said swiftly.

"You haven't –" Mary's voice came from behind, but John cut through her words.

"Damn right you have." John's fists were curled again, his wrists shaking. Sherlock noticed this, looking down at his closed hands, but he didn't move away any further.

"You don't know when your deductions start to hurt, do you? Nor do you realize when they're _wrong,"_ John continued vehemently, and Sherlock blinked at this.

"I'm never –"

"Mary's family has never been fit monetarily," John interrupted him fiercely, ignoring Mary's attempts to stop him. "Mary didn't leave for London because they didn't want her to – she left because they _asked _her to."

Sherlock's face drained of all color, but John didn't stop there.

"You're right; her fiancé did give her that necklace and those earrings," he said, feigning amazement that turned into coldness. "But he's been _dead _for six years. She didn't leave him, you bastard, he _died."_

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he glanced back at Mary. "I-I didn't know…"

John snorted instead of letting Mary speak. "That's a first."

Sherlock flinched, and it's so uncharacteristic of him John's anger ceased for a second before it returned worse than before.

"John….John, I'm really sorry….I didn't mean –"

"But you did mean it, and that's what makes it so wrong," John said scathingly. "You meant to make me look at Mary and think lowly of her. You meant for me to tell you that was 'amazing' or some other bullshit. You _meant _for every bit of this to happen, and you know it."

"John –"

"I don't even want to hear anything from you. I'm….I'm just _done, _Sherlock. I'm done trying to care or trying to make amends because when I do, shit like _this _happens. You humiliate me and upset my fiancée and make a complete _wreck _of everything. It….it would've been so much easier if you had stayed dead, don't you realize that yet?"

"John!" Mary's appalled voice comes from behind him, but John barely heard her. He's crossed the line – crossed it long ago – and is not about to turn back.

"You don't know how much I wish that to be true." Sherlock's voice was small and vulnerable.

"You say that, but I don't know whether or not what you say is the truth anymore, Sherlock. I gave up on trusting you when you didn't trust me. So….so just….just take your petty deductions and just….leave."

Sherlock, for a moment, just stood in front of John, looking lost and uncertain – both things John hated seeing in him, but is too angry to really care.

"_Leave, _Sherlock. And….and don't come back." John's voice had receded to a murmur.

And Sherlock didn't hesitate for a moment longer. He left.

All John had then was Mary, who went to bed that night disappointed in him. John went to bed that night still furious and slightly broken.

Following his last confrontation with Sherlock, it only took a week for John's limp to return.

* * *

**A/N:** ack what am I still writing this for. It was supposed to be a one-shot.


	4. Chapter 4

"It's been a long time, John."

John made a noncommittal noise from his seat across from Ella, shifting his weight in the chair uncomfortably. He could not bear to look Ella in the eyes – somehow it shamed him to be here. He felt weak, vulnerable, a broken, helpless man, and the traits did not please him to think about.

"Mary's been concerned about you….you know that's why you're here, don't you?" Ella continued softly, and John, though not looking at her, could feel her gentle yet intense gaze.

Instead of answering, he nodded, looking out of the window of his therapist's office. It was a rather rainy day in London, with raindrops falling down the glass window like heavy tears. John found he couldn't look out the window after realizing this, and turned away.

"You haven't been here since your friend Sherlock's death –"

"_Faked _death," John cut in bluntly. He didn't intend for his voice to sound so bitter, but he can almost taste the foulness of the words on his tongue. _Right. He faked his death, didn't tell you anything, came back, and tore apart your life. Right. That's exactly what's been going on. Why shouldn't I be bitter about that?_

"Right, how have the two of you been….sorting this out?"

John said nothing, and he heard Ella sigh.

"I don't know what has been going on with the two of you, John, but I do know that since you met Sherlock you have had no need to be here. He did more for you than I, admittedly, ever could. And since he's 'returned' your limp has returned, Mary has become increasingly worried about you, and your nightmares have been increasing to violent levels."

"And that's supposed to be _my _fault? Because I haven't '_sorted things out'_ with Sherlock?" John asked, immensely irritated.

"That's not what I was suggesting," Ella said, barely missing a beat.

"Then what _were _you suggesting? That somehow three years can just disappear with a 'sorting things out?' That Sherlock can say 'I'm sorry' or 'I did it to protect you' or 'I love you' and suddenly that fixes everything? It was _three bloody years._ Simple _words _are not going to just….just magically repair everything!"

Ella, for a moment, considered her response carefully before finally speaking, "Broken hearts don't heal immediately, John, I know that. It does take time, but you have to be willing to put forth that time to fix it."

"_Broken hearts,"_ John scoffed distastefully, rolling his eyes.

"You know what I mean, John. Your friendship with Sherlock is not going to repair itself unless –"

"But what if I don't _want _to fix it? He surely didn't seem so willing to think about what I would feel when he jumped off that building. So why should I care about what he's feeling now? Why should I try to fix things, try to listen to him, try to reciprocate his apologies? It's three years too late."

John finally looked up at Ella, only to find her with narrowed eyes and hands folded in her lap tightly, as though she were contemplating something. John regretted coming here. Mary was wrong, he didn't need Ella's help. Mary didn't have to worry about him, there was nothing wrong with him. Just his bloody leg and nightmares. Those were all things he could handle. This was ridiculous….

"John. Are you really angry with the fact Sherlock left you so in the dark….or is it more of the fact you're in denial?" Ella said finally, and John frowned at her.

"I'm not in denial about any –" He started.

"From what Mary told me all of this only started when Sherlock returned at your engagement party. Before then, you mourned. You weren't angry. You wanted him back. But when he finally came back, it wasn't what you were expecting, was it?"

"And what….what do you think you know?" John spat, slowly curling his hands.

"You said he told you he cared for you. And you're angry because you're denying that you do, too. You're angry because you do, because you have Mary. You're not angry at him for lying to you…you're angry because he cares about you."

John sat in resonated silence for a while after Ella finished her psychoanalytic speech. For a moment, he was numb, Ella's words striking him cold. But in the next moment, he was feeling warm with a slow fury.

"Mary was wrong," John told Ella, struggling to keep his voice even. "She was. I'm _fine. _I don't need….I don't need _this. _I don't need _you_ trying to tell me what I do or don't feel. Because….because I damn well know what I feel."

"John –" Ella said, her voice soft and an attempt at calming John down, but John waved his hands at her, cutting of her words.

"Sod this. I don't need this. I don't know how many times I have to say it before you start to get it. _I'm fine._ There's nothing wrong. My leg's acting up and I'm having bad dreams. That's all. _I'm. Fine."_

John didn't wait for Ella's response. He was out of the office before Ella's mouth was even open to respond.

xXx

John had hoped to not tell Mary about walking out on Ella, with promises to himself to never return if he could help it. But Mary, unfortunately, was waiting for him back at their flat. And John couldn't hope to brush off his early reappearance with Mary staring at him with gentle, yet obviously confused, eyes.

"You're back early….I'd thought you'd be with Ella for at least a few hours," Mary remarked, her eyes following John as he made his way into the kitchen, refusing to look at her. He busied himself with the only mundane task he could think of – making tea – to avoid responding.

"I'm not going back." The words finally tumbled out of him, and his simple task seemed to be abandoned with them. Instead he stared straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the small kettle he'd placed on the stove.

He heard Mary stand from her sitting position, slowly, and the sound of her footsteps as she moved over to him. John didn't have to see her to know she would probably be confused – or hurt – or both.

"Did something happen?" she asked quietly, reaching out her hand to touch John's arm. He didn't shrug away, but still didn't look at her.

"I'm just not going back," he answered bluntly. "I can handle this on my own. I'm fine."

"John….John, look at me." Mary's hand tightened slightly on John's arm, and he only hesitated for a moment before turning his head to look at her.

He regretted it at once. The pain and concern in Mary's features was enough to make him want to turn away from her, but he forced himself to keep his gaze steady, even when he wanted to fall apart.

"You shouldn't have to handle this on your own," Mary continued softly.

"I've told you, I'm….I'm just fine," John said at once, but Mary just shook her head.

"You're _not _fine, John. Your anger and your nightmares and your leg all say that you're not fine. And…. John, I think you know how you need to fix this –"

"There's nothing _to_ fix." John felt like he was back with Ella again, trying to convince her he was fine. Everything was _fine. _Was that such a hard thing for Mary and Ella to grasp?

"I appreciate your concern, Mary, but I don't need help," John continued flatly.

Mary blinked, her hand falling from John's arm to dangle loosely at her side. "I don't think you do appreciate my concern. Or else you would be trying harder…. I just –"

"_Trying harder?"_ Now John was getting angry again, and this time it came so fast it nearly winded him. "You think….. You're wrong. I don't need to try and do anything, not for you, not for Ella, not for – not for Sherlock!"

"I'm not asking you to do anything for me! Or for Ella, or for Sherlock!" Mary's eyes were shining, biting her trembling bottom lip. "I'm asking you to do this for _yourself._ You….You haven't been the same, and you know you haven't. You know –"

"I've been just fine!" John shouted, and Mary instantly took a step back. "I don't need _you_ or anyone else to tell me how I'm feeling, or what I need!"

"I'm not telling you how to feel, why can't you realize that?" Mary's voice was slightly hysterical now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I just _care_ about you. I _love _you, and I want you to feel better! I want a fiancé – a husband – who's _happy!_"

"Well, maybe it's high time you realized the person you're marrying is never going to be '_happy,'"_ John hissed. "Not again. And there isn't a _thing _that can change that."

Mary's tear filled eyes seemed to dull, and she took another step back. "Well, then, I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I didn't 'realize' this. I'm sorry I cared. I'm sorry."

Her words seemed to pacify John a little, for he, for the first time, realized how hurt he had just made his fiancée. But he had no chance of saying anything that might rectify what he said, because Mary had turned and walked shakily to the flat's only bedroom. John heard the door click shut behind her, and knew he would not be allowed in, for yet another night.

The silence of the flat only broke with the whistling of the tea kettle John had forgotten about. He numbly shut off the stove and abandoned the kettle completely, moving into the living room to sit on the couch.

He didn't sleep that night. For once, it wasn't because of nightmares. For once, it was because of the sounds outside of the flat.

He hadn't stopped to think about how loud London could be at night. Usually that was only something he thought about in his time living with Sherlock at 221B. With police sirens and speeding cars and dull conversation….

His body ached with every sound, because every sound brought a memory back to him. An unwelcome memory. Memories he had not thought about since Sherlock's fall.

What was worse was the ache in his body that seemed to crave those times he spent with Sherlock. It was a dangerous game, but a thrilling one.

_You miss him. You miss him and his crazy, daring schemes and near-death experiences._

John had to shake himself to stop thinking about this, to keep himself from convincing himself he wanted that life back. Because he didn't. He didn't want that back. He didn't want Sherlock back in his life.

It was lies, always lies, that allowed him to fall asleep that night.

* * *

_**a/n: **plot? what is this plot you speak of?_


	5. Chapter 5

John awoke the next morning – a still cloudy, still dreary Saturday morning – to find the flat empty except for him. John limped silently around the flat, looking for anything that might tell him where Mary had gone off to. When he found nothing, he resolved to sitting at the dining room table, losing himself in aimless thought, almost instinctively tapping his cane on the chair he sat in.

When did his life become this? He was becoming so dreadfully useless to the world, forced to do little activity because of his leg, and, now, forced to sit alone at the table with nothing but silence.

He was willing to place the blame for his inactiveness on himself – _You should've taken more initiative and gone out more, John – _but reasoned that it wasn't just his fault.

He wasn't willing to think about the person he placed the rest of the blame on. His dreams sufficed enough without the thoughts in the waking world. Enough for a lifetime.

He would take the dreams over this any day. Because at least in the dreams, he did something.

John blinked, looking down at his lap, where his left hand was curled in a fist. It was shaking.

"Tremor's back," he said flatly, uncurling his fist and examining his unsteady fingers. He said it as though he were expecting it. As though it had to happen sometime. Vaguely he wondered if anything new will arise from all of this. If his opposite hand, his legs, his whole body, will start to adopt this nervous shaking.

How useless he will be then.

He couldn't stay like this any longer. He couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to become that useless. He ached to do something, to act again. In the back of his mind he knew that he would return to the military, if the war were not over. He would return to a land of fighting and death and paralyzing fear just to do _something._

He forced himself out of his chair, grabbing his coat as he made his way out of the door of the flat. He wasn't sure where he would be heading, but he had to get out before he drove himself insane. So he hurried down the stairs as fast as his limp would allow, and emerged into the gray London atmosphere.

He and Mary lived in a different side of London that, at first, took John a while to get used to. It was a quieter sector, still alive with people and cabs, but a bit less so. Compared to Baker Street, their little flat in Paddington was much less active and exciting.

Not that he was comparing it to Baker Street.

He walked at an annoyingly slow pace, his leg already starting to ache but he refused to stop or wave down a cab. He continued to walk, and he felt pretty sure he knew where his feet would be taking him.

"_John?"_

John blinked when he heard the voice from behind him, but he didn't slow his pace. There were bound to be hundreds of John's in London. And he really didn't feel like talking to anyone, regardless.

"_John Watson!"_

Now he had no choice but to turn around, and instantly recognized the man hurrying up to him, a small smile on his face.

"'Morning, Greg," John said neutrally as the detective inspector approached him. "What are you doing so far from home?"

"There's been a few murders over on Sussex Gardens. Well, elsewhere, too, but more recently there," Greg Lestrade explained, starting to walk alongside John.

John felt his heart pound a bit faster at the word "murders," a more than familiar feeling.

"Rather interesting, this case. It was reported by victims who had somehow escaped being killed – although they refused to say any names for fear that they would be – but others have been. It's like this guy has a fifty-fifty chance of killing someone or not," Greg continued, shaking his head. "We've got no leads, and I've already been to Sherlock-"

"You've been in contact with him?" John asked suddenly.

"Following his reappearance at yours and Mary's flat, yeah. Gave him a few choice words he won't soon forget. Tried to get him on cases, but he's refused every one of them. I've been to him four times about this current one, but he hasn't agreed to anything yet."

"Maybe it's too 'dull' for him."

"I don't know. A serial killer with this kind of manner of killing? Seems right up Sherlock's alley." Greg sighed, rubbing the back of his neck absently. "I'm heading over there right now. He's beginning to scare me – more than usual. You probably know that, since you've probably been to see him frequently."

John narrowed his eyes to stare at the pavement, not responding.

"You have been to see him, haven't you?" Greg asked slowly, catching John's silence.

"We haven't been on the best of terms lately," John said vaguely, staring at his trembling hand.

Greg noticed his hand for the first time, and said, "So you're not on your way to see him?"

"What? No. I just…fancied a walk." John finally looked up, but stared straight ahead instead of turning to Greg.

"So you don't know how he's been…." Greg sighed again. "He's not himself. Mrs. Hudson says he hasn't left the flat since apparently going to your place weeks ago. She worries about him, so she goes up to check on him, apparently. Says he's in the same position as always – only moves to make some deduction that usually proves to be….well…._wrong._"

Somehow this caught John off-guard. He turned to look at Greg's worried face and asked, "What do you mean, 'wrong?'"

"Yesterday when I was over there he made a comment that I had evidently taken a pair of shoes from the evidence locker down at the Yard. Said the shoes looked different from my usual ones…. I didn't have the heart to tell him I hadn't been in the evidence lockers in weeks."

Somehow John had thought that hearing Sherlock had been wrong for once in his life would amuse him. At one point, maybe, it would have. But now, for the first time, he felt extremely worried.

"So he never leaves, refuses to take cases, and makes inaccurate deductions?" John clarified, completely aware he was now walking with Greg straight in the direction of Baker Street.

"That's only the half of it," Greg said grimly. "He literally seems to be starving himself, he barely talks and when he does he usually stutters, and he seems….jumpy. Like anyone who walks into his flat is going to attack him. I don't know what happened to him in the three years he was gone, but it's definitely affected him."

Once again, John looked down at his shaking hand, and his sore leg. If all of this post-traumatic stress related ailments had been happening to him…. Sherlock was only human. He was bound to have some symptoms of distress upon returning….

But that didn't make sense. Sherlock had never, in John's history with him, developed any sort of psychological disorders after the worst of his cases. If anything, he became elated.

Then again, after the worst of Sherlock's cases, John hadn't regained his limp and tremor. _Maybe this is something different from post-traumatic stress…._

"Did something happen, John….in that time following his return that only you two know about?" Greg asked after a short silence. "Something –"

"He insulted Mary, for one," John interrupted, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "Forgive me if I can't let _that _go, among other things."

"What, like the fact he faked his death to protect you?" Greg's voice made John instantly feel both guilty and angry at once. "Like the fact he's spent three years away from you cutting away Moriarty's web to protect all of us? Have you even _tried _to listen to his side of things?"

"God, not you too," John said irritably. "Look, I don't know what you were expecting to happen between Sherlock and me once he returned – if you expected us to continue on and live happily ever after. But that's not how things work. He betrayed my trust and my friendship by outright _lying _to me."

"If he hadn't, we'd all be _dead, _John. You're being completely selfish –"

"Don't play like this is all my fault," John interrupted him again, his voice an angry growl.

"I'm not saying that," Greg said defensively. "It's the both of you. You both are refusing to sit down and talk this through, to try and get things to work again, and now he's a twitchy, sulky moron and you're a stubbornly angry, limping idiot. _Both _of you have shit to sort out. _With each other._ And maybe it's a damn good thing I ran into you today, because if I hadn't you wouldn't be going over there right now."

John clenched his fist, feeling the urge to angrily defend himself, but the words died before he even could form them. Greg's words, despite being utterly blunt, he knew had some ring of truth to them. John didn't want to see them as true, but Greg had reasoned well.

Not that the stubborn idiot named John Watson was going to ever tell him that.

"I'm not going to Sherlock's," he said, leaving no room for argument. "I'm –"

"Like hell you're not," Greg interrupted him fiercely. "I would never admit this to Sherlock, but the Yard needs him back. And you….you need to stop being so stubborn and fix things with him."

"I have places I could be other than Baker Street right now," John lied angrily, but Greg shook his head at him, his eyes hard.

"Not right now, you don't. If it's the last thing I live to see, I'm going to see you two fix whatever problems the two of you have been having. It's a no wonder he liked you so much, you're just as stubborn and stupid as he is."

John felt a rush of warmth flood his cheeks and face, but just as he looked up to spit another reply, he noticed he was staring straight ahead at Speedy's. Somehow they'd arrived at Baker Street. And John cursed his conscience for wanting to follow Greg here.

"You don't have a choice, so you're seeing this through," Greg said firmly, already walking ahead.

A thousand different feelings seemed to flood John at once. Anger, anxiety, and frustration among the prominent ones. And, more deep down, he felt….a strange form of anticipation.

Was he actually _anticipating _seeing Sherlock again? He couldn't deny this feeling was so similar to the feeling he'd felt last night, listening to the sounds of the night outside his flat. And it was a feeling so similar to the feeling he felt each time he and Sherlock were in pursuit of some runaway criminal.

But he couldn't possibly….John didn't….he didn't _miss _all of that. He could not possibly miss Sherlock Holmes….after everything he'd done….and everything John swore he would never do or feel.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile. He didn't think about what he was doing, but the text was sent and he was limping after Greg before he could think twice.

_Mary,_

_Don't know how long I'll be_

_Meeting with Greg Lestrade_

_Seeing Sherlock_

_I love you_

_-John_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ I'm just going to take this moment to thank all the lovely people who have followed this story and left such heartwarming reviews 3 You all are lovely, and I can't thank you enough for giving me the drive to continue writing this darned story ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

John had never seen Sherlock in a position like what he walked in on, slowly coming up the once-familiar steps and entering the flat behind Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And, over the years they'd shared a flat together, he had thought to have seen it all.

Sherlock sat in the living area, staring directly out the open window. He sat cross-legged on a stack of pillows and blankets, as though he'd fancied himself a nest out of every pillow in the flat he could find. John tried to examine him without giving himself away, and immediately noticed three nicotine patches on Sherlock's bare right arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his thin hands were pressed together under his chin. A short distance away from where he sat lay his violin.

"He's been thinking…." John stated to Lestrade, vaguely.

The minute he had spoken, Sherlock's entire body visibly tensed from his position on the floor. His hands slowly came apart, but he didn't turn around.

"I've already said I'm not taking the case, Lestrade," Sherlock said quietly. "Jo – he isn't going to convince me."

"I've never been able to convince you to do anything," John replied as Lestrade began to. "That's not what I'm here for."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly towards the three of them, giving John a sparse profile view of his face. Sherlock's face seemed sallower and paler than usual, with rings under his eyes and sunken cheeks. John had seen these sorts of symptoms before in his patients, namely in Afghanistan. Usually it meant the patient was malnourished or dehydrated – John didn't doubt both in Sherlock's case. And, as an extra, John caught the slight shaking of Sherlock's usually steady hands, indicating weakness and loss of energy.

_He's been starving himself._ Lestrade's words made John's heart fall a few centimetres in his chest. This wasn't like Sherlock at all. John had never seen the day Sherlock was so clearly malnourished and weak. This kind of starving was different from refusing food for cases. This was a frightening kind of starving.

"What are you here for, then?" Sherlock asked coldly, turning back to look out the window. "Troubles back with Mary?"

John didn't bother telling him he was right – he already felt a flicker of anger at the mere sound of Mary's name, and had no desire to fuel the flame.

"No. I ran into Greg, and he said you weren't…..yourself."

"Because I won't take some pointless case that's not worth my time?"

"I don't know. This case seems to at least wager an eight." John was forcing his voice to sound light, trying to act as though he had a right to be here, as though nothing had happened. But he wasn't sure why he was pretending.

Now Sherlock turned his head to fully look at John, and for a moment he just stared, eyebrows slightly quirked. He then turned to look up at Lestrade, but for not nearly as long. Within seconds he was back to the window.

"Your 'by chance' killer, the one who leaves some alive and some dead. I'd wager he gives each victim a fifty-fifty chance – much like our friendly cabbie all those years ago, with the pills – but not nearly as crafty. Could be as simple as a flip of a coin – heads you die, tails you live," Sherlock said monotonously. "I only say it has to be simple because only a simpleminded criminal allows victims to escape without so much of a threat. Why the fifty-fifty chance? Lost someone important to his life the same way, a fifty percent chance of surviving but did not. You're looking for someone with a history of a recent loved one's death and perhaps has a couple of coins in his pocket."

"And how in the bloody hell are we supposed to find a guy like that?" Lestrade asked, and John could tell by the look on his face he was both baffled and annoyed.

"Again, not a clever criminal, even Anderson should be able to run forensics reports to track him down." Sherlock looked back at John out of the corner of his eye, a small, almost imperceptible smile on his face. "That makes it almost, but not nearly, a five."

John couldn't help it; he was smiling, looking over at Lestrade.

"Thought you said he couldn't deduce," he said smugly, and Lestrade frowned at him.

"Thought you had a hand tremor," he countered, nodding towards John's hand. John looked down at it, noticing the shake was completely gone. "Told you that you had a lot to work out."

John blinked, looking over at Sherlock, who had caught what Lestrade had said. The small smile on his face vanished and he returned to looking out the window.

"Still not going down then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson spoke finally, a worried shake to her voice.

"No," Sherlock answered bluntly. "In fact some silence would be lovely right now."

Mrs. Hudson glanced over at Lestrade and John. Lestrade shrugged and John averted his gaze, focusing instead on the appearance of 221B itself. Despite the changes the person living within its walls had gone through, the flat itself remained nearly unchanged over the weeks. There was the skull on the mantel, the bullet holes in the wall, and ignored cases held by a knife near the skull.

Deep down somewhere, this was still the man John knew three years ago. Deep down somewhere, John himself was still the only person Sherlock trusted. John wasn't sure whether he was relieved or uncertain about this sort of realization.

"Then I suppose I'd best be off," Lestrade spoke to Sherlock again, defeated, but Sherlock showed no recognition that the inspector was speaking. "Mrs. Hudson, would you show me out?"

The way he asked this was clear that Lestrade intended for Sherlock and John to be alone. John caught his side-glance at him, the pointed look that said _Still not getting out of this_ and left little room for argument. Not that John was exactly aching to leave. Now that he was here, now that he had finally seen Sherlock, he realized he didn't _want _to leave.

"Yes...yes, of course," Mrs. Hudson said, catching on. She looked at John with that familiar caring and endearing look, and it made John feel guilty for not being over to see her, at least, more often. "It was nice seeing you, dear."

John agreed with a simple nod of his head before Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson left the flat, the door clicking shut bringing a silence with it. John stared at the door for a long moment before sighing and turning, only to find Sherlock had turned to stare at him, too.

"This is an interesting arrangement," John said, trying to sound conversational, motioning towards the "nest" Sherlock had created.

"Long nights of thinking," Sherlock explained simply, still staring unblinkingly up at John.

"Sleep, I hope, has been on the itinerary."

"No time."

John crossed his arms, eyebrows raised. "And let me guess, there's been no time for you to eat either."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, almost absently rubbing his forearm where the nicotine patches were attached. John did not let him open his mouth to defend himself.

"When was your last meal, exactly, Sherlock? Because you look like hell," John added, seeing Sherlock's mouth form the word _Why? _and speaking before he had the chance to get the word out.

"Couple of days. Maybe two weeks." Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly.

"Two _weeks?_ Sherlock. People can't _survive_ without food for that long."

"Actually, John, medical professionals agree one can go at least eight weeks without food as long as they have water," Sherlock informed him cockily, and John rolled his eyes.

"Well, _this _medical professional demands that you eat something. Right away. No arguments, Sherlock," John added as Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to turn away. "I am still your doctor."

This made Sherlock freeze, and John realized what he had said. Sherlock slowly turned his head back to John, and nodded slightly once.

Less than an hour later, the two of them were sitting across from each other in the living area, the blankets and pillows of Sherlock's "nest" cleared away and Chinese takeaway between them. Sherlock was picking disdainfully at his own food, while John, having no appetite, left most of it for him, once in a while prompting the younger man to eat. It would've been like old times, if something big weren't hanging in the air between them, only increasing in intensity with every bite of food they weren't eating.

Just as John was beginning to wonder why he was even here, Sherlock cleared his throat, pressing his hands together and staring down at the floor.

"I think you know I've figured out why you're here," he said monotonously.

"Enlighten me, then," John said automatically, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together in front of him.

"You ran into Lestrade, apparently talked about me, and he forced you here." Sherlock's deduction was uncharacteristically simple. To the point.

"He seemed to be under the assumption you were...affected. I'm failing to see that, to be honest."

Sherlock narrowed glanced up at John, lips quirked in what could be a smile. "He thought I could no longer deduce, just as he thought you had a limp. But we both know neither is true."

"Then would you care to deduce why I'm here, if we have no afflictions?" John ventured.

"Because neither of these afflictions is true when in the presence of each other," Sherlock answered at once, as if it were obvious. "Around anyone else...I have to admit my deduction skills are...failing. And I can tell your psychosomatic limp is prominent when around anyone but me."

"And would the genius Sherlock Holmes like to venture a guess as to why that is?" John was hating Sherlock's cocky tone of voice, the assuredness of every word he spoke. That wasn't what he was here for. He wasn't here for Sherlock to pull the "I-know-something-you-don't-know" card, which he felt sure Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock's smile faltered at John's tone. "I've upset you."

"There's a deduction I can get behind," John said, forcing his voice to sound cool.

"John...I'm not trying to upset you –"

"Really? Because you sure have been making a point of it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Is this about what I said about Mary? Because really, John, I didn't realize –"

"You didn't realize you were trying to make her look like a damned fool, like a bad person I shouldn't be wound up with."

"That was never my intention –"

"I think you're lying through your teeth, Sherlock. You shouldn't try on the playing stupid disguise, it really doesn't suit you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, twiddling his fingers in an almost nervous way. John had never seen him do such a thing.

"Lying is the only thing now that keeps me relatively...sane," Sherlock said quietly.

John could definitely relate to that. He leaned back in his chair, staring at Sherlock while Sherlock would not look at him.

"If I can lie and tell myself I didn't mean to hurt you, it makes things much better," Sherlock explained flatly. "If I can lie and tell myself you're taking things too seriously, it doesn't hurt as much."

"'_Taking things too seriously?'"_ John repeated, astonished and aggravated.

Sherlock didn't respond, just continued to twiddle his fingers.

"Is there any other way for me to take this, Sherlock? Am I supposed to take this whole experience with a grain of salt and a good-humoured laugh and forget it ever happened?"

"I said it was a lie, John, you aren't –"

"Maybe I am, Sherlock, and maybe that's not a lie. Because when it comes down to it, you _ruined my life._ It's the only way I can say it. So pardon if I didn't take things less seriously. I wasn't aware there was a _correct _way to respond to you."

Something seemed to shift in Sherlock's gaze. His heavy, pained eyes suddenly brightened, and his jaw clenched visibly.

"I ruined _your _life?" Sherlock echoed. "Me. I ruined your life."

"Everything was high and fine before you came back, wasn't it?" John said without thinking, cold and sharp.

"Everything was high and fine before you showed up," Sherlock countered irritably, his words nearly strangled by an anger he was trying to suppress. "John Watson who came to live with the psychotic Sherlock Holmes. You just _had _to stick around, didn't you? You had your chance to leave on so many different occasions. And when you didn't, you had a gun fixated on you unless I killed myself. Unless I, never gave a damn Sherlock Holmes, grew a heart and fell off a building. This has always been _your _fault."

John leaned in closer to Sherlock again, fists clenched so his fingernails dug painfully into the palms of his hands. "_My _fault? You jumping off a building is my fault? Having to stand by your grave, having to _bury_ you, having to spend nights awake because of you, always falling, always dying, in my dreams. That was _my_ fault?"

"Of course it was!" Sherlock shouted. "You never would've had to see me fake my suicide if you had been gone by now! Don't you see? This...This _affliction._ The things that have been happening to me since returning, it's your entire fault. My inability to deduce, the nervousness, the refusing to eat, the stuttering. It's happening because _you_ would've died. Because _I_ had to save you. Because you wouldn't fucking _leave_ when you had the chance!"

"So the limp, the tremor, the nightmares are my fault too?" John countered fiercely. "No. This is _your _fault for thinking I needed to be saved. Your fault for not _trusting _me. For not telling me you were alive sooner. For lying to me! For treating me as anything _but _your best friend! I never was that to you, was I? I was just ordinary, plain, usual John Watson. Just a tagalong to raise your ego a little bit higher every time we –"

"If you were nothing more than a 'tagalong' I didn't care about, we wouldn't be in this position, would we? Because you would not be here! If you were just a _tagalong_, I would not have even _bothered_ with you. There is a great question of why you couldn't have been _ordinary _and _usual. _And dispensable. A short term relationship that wouldn't have _ruined me."_

"I still can't believe you think_ I _ruined _you_! Have you seen what you've done to Mary and me? What you've done to my body, my mind –"

"What _you've _done to my mind and reasoning? To my entire _being?_"

"So I made you care a little. Excuse me for thinking bloody nightmares are a little more concerning!"

"Nightmares? A few pathetic dreams your naive mind conjures up –"

"The deductions you pull out of your arse and they _happen _to be true –"

Just as it was becoming clear to John that they had both hugely messed up, just as his mind was beginning to think rationally, to stop this senseless arguing before it escalated even further, Sherlock opened his mouth, and John assumed it was to shoot another retort. He opened his own mouth to stop him, but there were no words that escaped either of them.

John had been very, very wrong when he thought Sherlock was going to speak. In fact, this was the very last thing he was expecting.

Sherlock almost threw himself forward, his open mouth colliding with John's own.

No. This was definitely not what he was expecting.

His mind didn't register it as a kiss at first. He thought of ten other very illogical things it could be. He did not have Sherlock's logical thought process, especially not when caught off guard.

He further did not want to register it as a kiss. A kiss from his former flatmate. A former dead man. An idiotic sociopath who was kissing his once best friend.

His once best friend who was _engaged._

John grunted at the thought, displeased, trying to pull himself away from Sherlock, but each time he moved, Sherlock would only push forward, pressing closer. It got to the point where John was literally trapped beneath him in his chair, losing oxygen quickly.

Or at least he _thought _that's why his brain was numb, his fingers were tingling, and his eyes were closing. That's usually what happened when a person stopped breathing... Yes. Loss of oxygen. That's all it –

In spite of himself, he found himself gasping slightly against Sherlock's lips as Sherlock's hands found his shoulders, gripping them tightly, possessively. John was barely aware of his own hands finding Sherlock's waist, nor was he aware of his head inclining to deepen the kiss. The kiss he didn't want, with the person he hated...

_You're a horrible, horrible man, John Watson._

He knew what he was doing, and he knew it had to stop. He wasn't going to let anything leave him over something so stupid. He remembered Mary, in the far corner of his blank, hazy mind. He remembered Mary, and his hands came up to Sherlock's shoulder to push him away with all the force he had.

John didn't like the taste in on his lips as he sat, panting, in the chair, staring at an emotionless, swollen lipped Sherlock. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip a few times, tasting Sherlock and blood. He didn't remember teeth, or biting. But thinking back, he didn't remember much of anything after Sherlock opened his mouth.

"I...I can't believe... You...you _idiot."_ It was the best he could come up with. He stood shakily to his feet. "You're...You _repulse_ me, absolutely _repulse_ me."

Sherlock said nothing – maybe, John thought, he actually had nothing to say.

And John, realizing he had nothing more to say, or rather, realizing he couldn't think of anything more to say, fled before he did something really stupid. Like told the truth.

He wanted to see Mary. He just wanted to see Mary. She would fix things. She would make things less complicated. Mary would convince him that his feelings while...while doing what he was doing with Sherlock were unprecedented. That he felt nothing towards Sherlock.

He licked his bottom lip again, still tasting the metallic blood there, hurrying down the stairs and out onto the pavement. He tried furiously to flag down a cab, and was frustrated when he came to no avail. He wanted out. The longer he stayed here, the more he wanted to go back to Sherlock. To finally tell the truth, to stop lying, to –

A shrill whistle suddenly sounded from behind him, and John, shocked, whirled around, his eyes instantly latching on to Sherlock's own intense stare. Within seconds, a cab was pulling up to where the both of them now stood.

John didn't say anything – he, after all, had nothing to say – but as he was turning to climb into the cab, he felt a hand on his arm and his body whirled around. In a second, he was pressed against the cab's door, one arm pinned to it by Sherlock's powerful hand.

"John, I really –" Sherlock began, but John silenced him with a hard glare.

"I am fucking _engaged, _Sherlock. Did you expect this to change that?" he hissed.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, averting his gaze. "I can honestly tell you I wasn't expecting anything."

"You usually don't. But you usually find something anyway." John used Sherlock's momentary shock and loosening grip to tear his arm away and hurry into the cab.

He could only think of Mary on his way back. He forced himself to only think of Mary. So he would not think of Sherlock.

* * *

_A/N:_ _whoops i accidentally slash._


	7. Chapter 7

He didn't think he'd be happy to return home and find that Mary was not there. But he found himself actually hoping that she was not, and finding the flat empty relieved him immensely.

John forced his mind to stay blank as he slowly made his way into the silent flat. Even the simplest thought he forced from his mind. Too many things were bidding for his attention at once, and it was better to shove everything out. To have a blank mind and a blank face and act like nothing happened when something so _clearly _had.

But the thoughts weren't held at bay for long, not when they seemed insistent on plaguing him until he felt he were going to literally lose his mind all together.

After about a minute of this silent struggle with himself, John took a shower. And it was only during this nearly forty-five minute long period that he allowed himself to think.

He thought about Mary, first, and what he would tell her. He couldn't lie to her, but he seemed to have no other ready alternative. Telling the truth was out of the question.

Of course there was hiding the small nick on John's lip, which Mary would hopefully not notice. But in the event that she did...

_I cut myself. Accidentally nicked myself on some – some ice? No. She wouldn't go for that... Then a fall? A punch? _Once again his ideas were illogical at best. He went through an entire story of how his meeting with Sherlock didn't go well and they'd got into a row before he shook his head and realised it was ridiculous thinking.

Mary wasn't stupid. She wasn't blind. Of course she would see, if John wasn't careful. He didn't want some stupid incident to ruin what he had with Mary. One stupid act – an act he should have been able to prevent, an act he should have seen coming, an act he should have defended himself against.

So it wasn't really a matter of lying. It was a matter of preservation. Yes. Preservation.

But in order to achieve preservation he'd have to lie first.

John was growing sick of the lies. And thinking of that reminded him of Sherlock.

But he still managed to fight off thinking about...what had happened with Sherlock. He hated thinking about that more than he hated the idea of lying to Mary. He didn't want to think about what he was feeling, or, more, what he was _doing._

John closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired as the hot water streamed down his face.

He told himself repeatedly he didn't, couldn't, _possibly_ enjoy what had happened. He wasn't like that. Never once in his life had he fancied a man. He had Mary. He was marrying Mary. If that weren't proof enough...

It was shock. Shock that made him feel so dazed and strange. But the fact John had to _tell himself _this...

He forced himself to stop thinking for a moment to get out of the shower, his skin tingling from the scalding stream. He wasn't going to reach any definitive answers drowning himself (though he could certainly try).

John felt certain the flat would still be empty, so he only wrapped a light robe around his body before stepping out of the bathroom. He was at once greeted with the sight of Mary in the living area.

She didn't notice him at first, and for a second John considered fleeing to their room in order to avoid speaking to her. But he instantly felt like a coward for even thinking that when he saw the look on Mary's soft face. It was clear she had been crying, her eyes swollen and red and her face still wet with tears.

"Mary?" John's voice at once made her jump a little, turning her head up to meet John's eyes. She smiled a small smile, and John could tell it was a forced smile.

"Are you all right?" John asked her, taking a few steps closer to her. He felt certain he knew the answer.

"Oh, I'm...I'm fine," Mary said, not at all convincingly. "Since...since last night I've just had a lot to think about..."

Mary tightened her smile; maybe in an attempt to make it a more convincing one, but John still only saw a pained face hidden behind a mask.

Was this what it was like for her? For Mary to look at John, who promised and promised he was "okay" when in reality he was breaking. Did she feel an unexplainable, immeasurable amount of guilt, the guilt that John felt now?

He really must be a terrible man for not seeing that sooner.

"But...But are you all right, John?" Mary asked, and John's guilt increased at her ability to always turn a situation back to others. "I...got your text about going to see Sherlock...Is everything okay?"

_No. No it's not okay. It's not okay because I essentially snogged someone I'm supposed to hate, all the while betraying you. It's not okay because I think I may have enjoyed it. It's not okay because I'm about to lie to you about it, because I'm selfish and don't want to lose you. No. Everything is the very opposite of okay._

"I think so," John said out loud.

Mary smiled; it was a genuine smile this time. "You sorted things out, then?"

How could John find it so easy to lie? With only the smallest amount of guilt, guilt so easily ignored it was almost inhuman.

"Yeah, I think so," he said again, and he wished he had something more to say, but didn't.

Now Mary no longer looked sad at all. Her eyes brightened to the strength of a thousand suns, almost causing John to remember why he fell in love with her. Until he remembered Sherlock. And the terrible things he did. Mary didn't deserve him, but somehow, she still wanted him?

"I'm...I'm proud of you, John." Mary took John's left hand, and John sat down on the couch next to her, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. This didn't stop Mary from kissing him lightly on the cheek. It was an act that was meant to be comforting, but it stung. How long did John think he could go on like this?

"Please," John murmured, his eyes closing.

Mary tightened her grip on John's hand, and even that hurt. The circles she traced on the back of his hand felt the very opposite of soothing.

"What is it?" she asked softly. She still had no idea, did she? Somehow he'd thought that maybe she would see through the lies...or maybe he had hoped.

"I – I can't do this, Mary." The words nearly choked him, and he opened his eyes to stare straight ahead. He felt Mary's hand slide from his own.

"Can't do what?" Her voice only held confusion.

"I can't do this," John repeated, his hands reflexively curling into fists.

"John...can't do what?" The softness and the innocence of her voice was enough for him to snap.

"I can't keep lying to you!" He nearly shouted, but kept his voice as controlled as he could. "I...I can't lie anymore. Nothing's changed between Sherlock and me, all right? If anything it's gotten worse. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that straight away, but I didn't want to...to lose you. Because we didn't _fix_ anything. He kissed me –" – he added this as almost an afterthought – "- and now I don't know what to do, because I still love you but you don't deserve someone who will go behind your back and lie straight to your face."

He hadn't realised he'd stopped breathing halfway through his speech. He let out a deep breath, and risked a glance over at Mary.

She was no longer smiling. But John expected her to look...a bit more upset than this. She didn't look angry, just confused. She didn't seem hurt. And John couldn't understand why she didn't seem angry or hurt.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied, but...but I didn't see any alternative..."

Still Mary was silent. John could only wait for her to speak, all the while having more to say. But saying more wouldn't change what Mary was about to say. Anything John said now would be filler words.

"You and Sherlock kissed?" Mary said finally, and John inwardly flinched to hear her say it. All the while he wondered why she said the words with only mild curiosity.

"Sort...sort of," he said vaguely.

Mary paused for a moment, taking in the words. She sighed heavily, and John saw that her eyes were beginning to water.

"Okay...my turn," she said. "There's only one thing that bothers me, John, about everything you just said. It's not the fact he kissed you. I can't lie and say I never saw what was between you two. I had barely known him and I could see clearly he cared for you more than you deserve. More than I ever could."

"That's...That's not true," John blurted out. "We're not – he doesn't –"

"You have to know somewhere in your heart that you care for him too," Mary stopped him. "Just...just _reason_ with yourself to see the truth. You're blinded by a hatred you think you need to feel."

"You can't know that."

"I've been with you long enough to be able to know. Sometimes to know things you don't yet." Mary smiled slightly. "You know you love him, John. It didn't take a kiss, or even him coming back, for you to know that. And...and I can see that as well as anyone in London. And that doesn't bother me. I want you happy. That's all I've ever wanted. And you haven't been completely happy the three years we've been together. And he can give you that sort of happiness I can't."

"What is it then? What...what do I need to do, to show you I only care about – I only _need _you?"

"I know you care about me, John, you always have," Mary assured him sadly. "But it's not me – normal, innocent me – that you _need._ I could've been fine with that...but you _lied_ to me about it. You've always lied to me, John. You say you're fine, you say you're 'done' with Sherlock. And suddenly you lie to me about everything being 'fixed.' You lie to me about not caring for him, about not wanting him in your life. It's the lies, John..."

"I'm sorry, I don't know how many more times I can –"

"I'm not the one who needs your apologies, John." Another sigh, and John felt as though the worst was yet to come. "I...I can't do this. I can't...be with someone who loves someone else. Especially if I _know_. I...you don't need me. You need someone who can figure you out. Someone who understands your moods and what you say. Someone who understands that when you lie that's when to leave you be. But I'm not that person. I don't think I ever was."

John could only stare at her. He felt strangely numb. "So...what are you saying?"

"I don't think we should continue with this. With the wedding, with...with the two of us. I can't be with someone, for the rest of my life, who...who has a heart that belongs to someone else."

Now John felt a strange blow to his stomach, a blow that made the room spin.

"I will always love you, John," Mary whispered. "But not like this."

He didn't remember much of what happened next. He doesn't remember trying to reason with her. He doesn't remember stooping as low as to beg. He only remembered silence. Sleeping for the last time without her. He remembered feeling empty. Cold. As though the warmth Mary brought to the world had been taken away. Which, he guessed, would soon be true.

What he did remember was going out in the middle of the night. He didn't remember how he got to Baker Street, but he was there, at nearly three in the morning. He didn't remember how he got into the flat.

He remembered finding Sherlock awake, playing his violin, staring out the window. John had seen him do this so many times. But this time, and this time only, it enraged him beyond anything he'd ever felt before.

Combined with this, and everything that had happened to him, everything that _Sherlock _had caused, when the taller man turned around, John did what he should have done a long time ago.

He landed a punch straight into his jaw.


End file.
